The Colour of Magic
by redfantasyfox
Summary: In an alternate universe, Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield find a way to fall back in love with the help of a very unexpected type of magic. Contains both depressing and fluffy Thilbo Bagginshield feels. [Continued in the sequel "The Truth About Forever"]
1. Something Unexpected

The Blueses was a quiet coffee shop, just across the street from Bilbo's new apartment. Despite the rain, a warm light from their front windows splashed out onto the street, bathing the sullen grey sidewalk with a golden shimmer. Hanging from the door, just under the OPEN sign that Bilbo could read only from memory, was a large sheet of white paper, a line of thick black letters scrawling out…something. The young man squinted, tilted his head one way, then another, and eventually just pressed his nose against the glass of his bedroom window. Just before the pale fog from his breath obscured even the rain from view, Bilbo made out the words on the sign: HELP WANTED.

Stepping back, he fidgeted with the frayed seams of his robe. The idea of working at the shop was inticing, not only for its closeness, but also merely for the sake of having a regular income. Bilbo worked as a freelance writer, and although he loved to scribble as much as the next man, there wasn't always enough money to keep a roof over his head and food in his stomach. Turning, he took in the sight of his mostly empty apartment, the stacks of unpacked boxes muttering quietly about him in the darkness. He sighed a single, long, drawn-out note, before sliding his robe off his shoulders and tossing it wantonly onto a plastic folding chair. If he was going to do this, he may as well do it right away—no point letting someone else snag the job before he could make up his mind.

Fishing a coat out of a box and his umbrella out of another, Bilbo made his way down a darkened stairwell to the lobby of his building, where the middle-aged security guard nodded to him in passing.

"You've picked a terrible evening for a stroll, Mr. Baggins," the man said, thumbing a long pipe. "Shall I call a taxi for you?"

"No, that's alright," Bilbo replied, subtly scanning his uniform for a name tag and finding none. "Just popping over to the shop across the street for a coffee. Fancy anything?"

The security guard shook his head and waved him off, a motion that served as both a farewell and a no thank you. Not entirely sure what else to say to the man, or how to ask him for his name, Bilbo shuffled quietly across the hardwood to the front door, where the wind immediately bit at his face as he pushed it open. The rain was heavy, and sneaked around his umbrella as if on a personal vendetta, but Bilbo made it across the street without incident. As he reached for the handle he found himself pausing, his fingers inches from the warmth and dryness his body craved. He was worried, as he had every right to be. What if he screwed this up? Said the wrong thing? How would be face down the people here if he ran into them at the grocery store or the library?

Before his nerves could send him back to his apartment, a figure appeared behind the glass. They were little more than a tall, dark shadow, an outline from within the room that hid all detail from Bilbo except a general shape. Perhaps the young man should have been startled by the sudden appearance of a person in the doorway, but all he could think to do was step aside as the figure pushed open the door, greeting him with a small smile as if they were old friends.

"You seem to be having a lovely time out here," the man said, "but surely I can entice you inside for something to drink?"

Bilbo nodded, and followed the man into the shop. The smell of coffee beans curled under his nose, like a cat around his legs, but it served well as a calming agent, and in moments Bilbo felt both comfortable and confident. Looking around, he took in the sight of bookshelves lining the back walls, the spines of most of the volumes bent and creased from many years of attention, and the tables filling most of the remaining space, the stained wood a rainbow of colours from cherry red to off-white. The serving counter, that doubled as a display case for baked goods, stood to the right of the room, stretching all the way from the window to the little door at the back corner that led to an adjoining room.

Realizing suddenly that he had stopped walking, and that a few of the other patrons had turned to look at him, Bilbo hurried to the counter where the man he had followed was now standing opposite. He glanced at a plate of muffins, which looked awfully fresh, but before he could get a word out the man spoke again.

"So, when exactly are you available to start?"

Bilbo's mouth, partially open in preperation to speak, shut audibly. "I beg your pardon?"

"Working," the man pressed. "After all, that is why you're here, isn't it?"

Feeling a little foolish, as if having no interest in a place except in hopes of working there was reason to judge a man poorly, Bilbo dropped his gaze and watched his umbrella as it created puddles on the floor. "I, uh, yes, working would be nice." He raised his head and licked his lips. "Soon, I suppose. Tomorrow?"

The man leaned forward. "You ask me that as if it is a question."

Bilbo furrowed his brow. "Tomorrow," he said, with more confidence. "I can start tomorrow."

The man nodded and stroked his long, grey beard, a look of deep thought passing over his face. "Have you ever worked in a coffee shop before?"

"I haven't, no. I'm a writer—been at it for years."

"Books?" the man asked.

"Journals, mostly," Bilbo replied. "Do you read The Silver Lining? I write almost all their short story pieces." He liked the way that sounded, he realized, and stopped himself from noting that "all" really only counted for about six stories. "Or maybe The Journey?"

Before the man could reply, the front door to the shop opened again. Two young men stepped inside, but despite one sporting black hair and the other blond, there was no denying their relation. "Gandalf," the darker-haired one said, coming up to the counter and sliding a brown paper package across the polished wood. "I picked up your mail for you. It's a bit damp—wouldn't fit in the mailbox, so the postman just left it in front of your door."

Gandalf nodded like this was old news, then made a sweeping gesture that presented Bilbo liked a prized tomato at a farmers' market. "Kili, Fili, may I introduce the newest member of our company, Mr. Bilbo Baggins. He'll be working the weekly afternoon shift starting tomorrow."

"Welcome aboard," the brothers said in unison, clapping Bilbo on the back in turn. "You'll live to regret this decision."

Bilbo was too confused to really respond other than to frown and wrinkle his nose. Were they playing a trick on him? He turned to Gandalf, but was met with an offered hand, which he shock on nothing but principle.

"Thank you," he managed, somehow sensing it was better not to ask why he had been hired, how the old man had known his name, or why exactly this was a decision he would come to regret. "What time should I come in?"

"One should be fine," Gandalf replied, a twinkle glinting in his eye. "And I think you will find working here quite…agreeable."

Fili laughed. "Yeah, and the perks are just to die for."

Their words sounded ominous, intentionally or not, but Bilbo couldn't summon the willpower to question them. That was the magic of this place, he supposed, it just made you…accept things.

Once the silence had grown a touch awkward, Bilbo left the shop with a small wave and braved the downpour outside to make it back to his apartment. When he reached his door he couldn't remember how he had gotten there, if he had taken the elevator or the stairs, or even if the security guard had asked him about his lack of coffee. Water dribbled from the ends of his hair into his eyes, and rain was making his jacket heavy against his back. Time seemed to falter for a second, and Bilbo sensed something shift in the world around him, but then the feeling was gone and he was left shivering with his house key only halfway into the lock.

Once inside his small apartment, he dropped his jacket and umbrella unceremoniously onto the floor and stalked to his folding chair, the plan in his head simply to grab his robe and turn in early.

As it turned out, that was impossible; for his plastic chair was gone, and so was his robe.

In their places was a red velvet armchair and a fur throw, both worth several times the items they had replaced. And, there, balanced perfectly on the end of one of the armrests, was a steaming cup of coffee, one side of the Styrofoam cup flaunting two blue eagles.

Bilbo picked up the cup, stunned into silence, and took a sip.

It was even his favourite flavour.


	2. More Than Chance

Thorin wakes up in a cold sweat, his sheets tangled around his legs and half his body on the floor. His heart is thundering in his ears, and his head rings like a gong. He opens his eyes but the room spins, so he shuts them again and tries to calm his breathing. Making a fist, he presses his fingernails into his palm until it begins to bleed. The pain reminds him that he is alive, that he is safe, and slowly the world around him settles into silence and stillness. For a while he just lies there, the blood rushing to his head, his legs going numb, his back aching, and for that while nothing exists outside of him and his bedroom. He holds the thought as long as he can, but when his cellphone rings, his solace shatters around him like a pane of glass striking the floor.

He glances at the call display and recognizes the number, but when he hears the voice on the line he has no idea who it is.

He listens to them say hello, then again, and again, and finally all they're doing is shouting his name. It takes Thorin a long minute to snap out of his daze and mumble something that may have been an apology.

"It's fine," the voice says. "Just…Uncle, please, I—"

"Fili," he says, cutting him off, "Do you need something?"

His nephew hesitates for a moment. "Are you coming down to the shop today? Balin is having his book launch, and you've already missed the last thr—"

"Yeah, okay, I'll be there. Don't wait up." He shuts his phone and tosses it onto his bed without another word, ignoring the sound of it bouncing off and smashing onto the ground. He's beginning to tremble, and a chill is creeping up his spine, and somewhere, off in the distance from an origin point he cannot see, guns are firing. There's rumbling, rumbling from tanks, and there's hissing, hissing from gas bombs, and screaming, screaming from dying men. It's a wall of sound, of movement, of images, and they all come unbidden to Thorin, despite his best attempt to drown them out. He almost crawls right back into bed, except for the fact that he faces this pain almost every morning, and today, it's actually not that bad. He can handle it. He has to.

His kitchen is state-of-the-art, from the granite counter tops to the stainless steel appliances, but his kettle is old-fashioned. He fills it with water and puts it on the stove, counting down from ten over and over until it cries out. He sits on his couch and grips his mug with both hands, letting the warmth move down his arms and battle the cold that lingers under his skin. It's such a small comfort, but it helps.

Just as he does every morning, Thorin considers seeing a therapist. Of course, he's already seen more than he can bother to count, and each one tells him the same thing, gives him the same advice, so each time Thorin just nods his head, says he'll think about it, and then never comes in for another visit. They don't understand. They can't.

Thorin stares down at the bottom of his empty cup. He can't remember tasting the tea at all, but it's gone, and now he needs to go to work.

The essence of a routine helps him get through the day. He walks into the office, stares at the stack of paperwork, and gets to work. As a publicist, half of his job is to keep the media at bay, and the other half is to follow his clients to events and keep the public at bay. It's trying work, but it's fun, and the money is good. And, of course, knowing a lot of high class celebrities does get him a lot of free drinks, when he finds the energy to go out beyond his house and office.

He expects two of his clients to call, but eight of them do, and once he's halfway through the mountain of papers, his secretary drops another four onto his lap. She tells him the time once an hour on the hour, but otherwise just leaves Thorin to his work. He doesn't complain, breaks only briefly for lunch, and once the office closes he gets in his car and drives home. It's only once he's backing his car into the garage that he remembers the book launch.

Staring over the dashboard, Thorin weighs his options. Although it is true he skipped out on the last few of Balin's launches, he feels less guilty than perhaps he should because he knows there will always be more. On the other hand, his nephew did call him personally, and he had a lot of work to do tonight, so maybe a change of scenery would be nice before going another day on only a few hours of sleep. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, hating the sound of his car humming pointlessly beneath him, so before he can change his mind he guns it down the driveway and heads to The Blueses.

By a stroke of luck he isn't late, and even manages to find a parking spot right outside the shop. The light from the windows floods his car, pushing away the darkness that had snaked inside. He basks in it for a moment, and imagines its a sunrise, like the ones he used to wake up early to catch, back…back in the day.

Feeling like an old man, Thorin gets out of his car and locks it, the beep alerting some in the shop of his arrival. He spots Kili at the door a split second before the younger pulls it open and waves him in, and Thorin can't help but smile, just a little bit, at the look on his nephew's face.

"Uncle!" he cries, his grin pratically breaking his jaw in two. "I didn't think you'd actually show! Oh, this is great, get in here!"

Thorin nods and follows after Kili, sharing the small smile with both Fili and Gandalf, who nods like he had been expecting him all along. Slipping off his jacket, he hangs it over his arm, but Kili snatches it from his grasp and tosses it through the air.

He calls out something that Thorin doesn't catch, but he turns in time to watch his jacket get artifully caught by a stranger on the other side of the room. He's a little shorter than most, with curly golden hair and curious brown eyes, and the expression on his face is one of acceptance, as if stopping flying objects from shashing into his nose is something he's forced to do on a regular basis. Thorin doesn't stare, exactly, but his gaze lingers a moment.

Sometime within that moment, and Thorin cannot say exactly when, he suddenly recognizes the man. And in that same instant, he knows the man also recognizes him. Their eyes meet, their gazes hold, and all at once time just slows down until it eventually stops all together.

Between them, all that moves is Thorin's jacket as it tumbles softly from Bilbo's fingers and crumples onto the floor.


	3. Lost in Translation

Bilbo hangs Thorin's jacket on the coat rack by the window, hesitating with his hands on the collar. He can see his fingers trembling, just a little, so he takes a moment to straighten the sleeves, hoping he can calm his nerves before turning back to face the room. It takes only moments for him to deeply regret the action, because the feel of the material and the smell it prompts from the fabric is enough to remind him of exactly what he is trying to ignore.

Despite the dozen or so years that has passed since the two had last shared any time together, Thorin Oakenshield looks almost exactly like Bilbo remembers him. Tall, well-built, short black hair and matching beard—it's almost as if he had simply stepped right out of Bilbo's memories, the only change being his attire. The suit suits him, Bilbo realizes, much better than any army uniform, but it is still strange to see him in such a casual setting. He looks somewhat happy, a little tired perhaps, but happy nevertheless. Knowing that, Bilbo puts on the best smile he can manage and gets back to the event, shaking hands with the new attendees and leading them to seats in front of where Balin will speak.

Although he tries his best, Bilbo can't help but glance every now and again in Thorin's direction. He's quick and quiet about it, looking for no longer than a split second, but each time he feels his heart rate quicken and his breath catch. Bilbo never imagined he would ever run into Thorin again, and seeing him now, here of all places, has dredged up memories of their old army days together, days that he still isn't exactly ready to relive. To distract himself he hands out drinks, stacks and re-stacks a pile of Balin's books, and even ties his shoes a handful of times, but nothing is enough to stop the memories completely. Whenever he turns his head he catches a fragment, sometimes of nothing more than a field, and other times of guns, of barbed wire, and of blood. He fiddles with the buttons on his shirt, puts his hands in his pockets and takes them back out again, makes and unmakes a fist, until finally he just falls apart and is forced to leave the room.

The night air outside isn't cold, and as Bilbo breathes it in, he worries what his co-workers must think of him. Is he acting too suspiciously? He stares at the ground and follows the cracks in the sidewalk with his eyes, watching as it twists and turns through the concrete like lines on a map. Bilbo bites his lip and slowly raises his eyes, staring off into night and up at his apartment building, finding his room with relative ease from the small garden box he's placed on the balcony. The thought of his little garden brings a smile to his lips, one that fades into a tense line as the door to the shop opens.

Thorin doesn't seem to notice Bilbo as he steps out onto the sidewalk, or even when he approaches his car not far down the road. Bilbo watches him, feeling safe in the shadows, and admires the older man's grace. There has always been something about the way he moves, about the way he carries himself, that draws Bilbo's eye, something that he could almost call…royal. Majestic, even. He shakes his head at the thought and buried his hands in his pockets again. He is about to sneak back into the shop, out of sight, when Thorin finally notices him.

The tension between them is nearly palpable, but for a while neither speaks. Thorin's gaze on Bilbo is steady, but Bilbo can't seem to look into Thorin's face for more than a few moments without having to look away. There's too much history between the two men to open with simple pleasantries, so when Thorin finally speaks, he skips them entirely.

"It's been a long time," he whispers, the emotion in his voice impossible for Bilbo to place. "I honestly didn't think I'd ever see you again."

Bilbo shuffles his feet. "You…you look good. Glad to see you've, um, gotten yourself back together."

Thorin smiles, just a small tugging at the corner of his lips, but the sight of it twists something in Bilbo's heart. It reminds him of things he can't face right now, of emotions, dreams, and hopes that he has long since given up. He smiles a little in return, and wonders if it makes Thorin as conflicted as Thorin's makes him.

Thorin opens his mouth to say something else, but it dies on his tongue and he just turns away. Without speaking, the two simply follow after the other as they re-enter The Blueses, but once inside, they go their separate ways as if nothing at all had passed between them. No one inside gives any indication they knew the two of them had talked.

Bilbo concentrates the rest of the evening on Balin, who arrives a short time later. A friend of most of The Blueses' employees, he is a kindly older gentlemen who works at the city's muesuem as a historian, and his new book is a biography on the man who invented golf. Balin reads bits and pieces from chapters of his book, and afterwards everyone gathers around to congratulate him and have him sign a few copies for the shop. The atmosphere is joyous, but eventually midnight creeps up and most people start to drift home. Eventually, the only people who remain are Bilbo, Gandalf, Balin, the brothers, and Thorin.

Gandalf takes a moment to pat Balin on the shoulder. "Well, there goes another successful launch. I suppose we'll have to host another in a few months, for the next one?"

Balin laughs. "Aye, another biography. Looking forward to this one, lots of traveling I still need to do."

"Yes, yes," Gandalf says. "Now, I'm not sure how you got here, but shall I call a taxi?"

They leave the shop together a short time later, leaving the closing of the shop to Bilbo. The brothers stay to help clean up, but ultimately leave with their uncle.

Just before closing the door behind him, Thorin hesitates. Bilbo looks up from behind the counter, after just finishing locking the safe, and the two again have their moment of eye contact and silence.

Bilbo speaks first this time. "Thorin…" he trails off, trying to find the right words. There's so much he wants to say, but he has no way to say any of it. Instead, he simply says, "I work afternoons."

Thorin nods once before turning away, and then he's gone, swallowed by the night. Bilbo watches him go, and once the door shuts, he slips down onto the floor and hugs his knees. He smiles, he can't help it, and for a while he lets that smile define him, like it used to before Thorin Oakenshield entered his life and changed it forever.


	4. Just Beyond Reach

Thorin wakes suddenly and violently, shooting up from his bed and throwing his sheets onto the floor. His bedroom's details jump out at him, strikingly vivid, and without thinking he launches at his bedside table and draws his gun, aiming it at everything and nothing. In his head he sees people all around him, people with weapons, all of which are pointing straight at him. Only, in this vision, Thorin is not alone—Bilbo is there, also with his gun drawn, but his free hand is intertwined with one of Thorin's, his fingers gently squeezing morse code nonsense.

All at once, just as quickly as it appeared, the hallucination dies. Thorin forces himself to drop the gun; it hits the edge of his bed and crashes to the floor, but otherwise, there's no sound. Thorin remains sitting up, one hand on his heart, the other on the place in the bed next to him. He turns to look once, twice, three times, but each time the space beside him is empty. After a few minutes he stops, stops turning, stops looking, but he doesn't move his hand. He stays there, in that exact position, all morning long, ignoring phone call after phone call, growing stiffer and stiffer, until eventually he summons the energy to get up.

Sitting in his living room, a cup of tea in his hands, he stares at the wall. It's blank, the colour dull and simple, but he stares nevertheless. He's afraid to look around, afraid of what he will and won't find lurking in the shadows. The echoing sounds come and go in waves, sometimes building, sometimes fading away, but they never completely vanish. By noon Thorin knows he won't be going in to the office, so he texts his secretary apologizing.

When two o'clock rolls around, Thorin considers calling someone. Usually he doesn't bother, just lies in bed and hopes to fall back asleep, but his attack doesn't seem to be wearing off. He has alternating hot and cold flashes, shivers wrack his body, and always there's that pounding from out in the distance. By four he feels like he's dying, and despite the danger, he gets in his car and starts driving.

On route to the hospital, he pulls over to the side of the road and rests his head against the steering wheel. He doesn't know what he's going to tell the doctors, or even whether or not his pain is worth alarming anyone, but he knows he can't go back to his house. He sits on the shoulder for a long time, watching other cars pass by, and slowly, very slowly, he starts to feel better. The flashes and the tremors disappear, and the pounding becomes a muffled buzzing. Even his head clears. Feeling refreshed, but still a little fragile, he manuvers his car back onto the street. He meant to go home, at first, but changes his mind after the first turn and heads for the other side of town.

When Thorin arrives at The Blueses, he sits outside the shop for almost twenty minutes. He doesn't know why he's here, what he's hoping to achieve, but he's drawn to the place like the sea to a beach. In his head, he replays the book launch, and despite it being almost a week and half ago, he remembers every detail. He remembers the way Bilbo watched him out of the corner of his eye when he thought no one was looking, the way he purposely chose his words but loaded a thousand and one other meanings behind them; he remembers the way he was dressed, the way he moved, the way he smiled. And all of it, together, was just Bilbo, just like Thorin had always remembered him. It was like nothing had changed.

Before getting out of his car, he recalls Bilbo's parting words, and, glancing at the clock on his dashboard, hopes five thirty still counts as the afternoon.

The Blueses is nearly empty when Thorin walks in, so the tiny bell atop the door rings out and echoes across the room. Bilbo is working behind the counter, his back to the door, but he turns when he hears the bell. He looks a bit surprised to see Thorin standing in the doorway, but quickly hides the expression behind a small smile. Gingerly, like the floor might give out from under him, he walks up to the cashier and fiddles with a few of the dials. "Hello Thorin," Bilbo says, speaking to the machine. When he finally raises his eyes, he tucks a rogue lock of hair behind his ear (which promptly springs free again) and clears his throat. "Can I get you anything?"

"Just a coffee, please," Thorin replies, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He considers asking Bilbo about his behaviour, but thinks better of it. "How much do I owe you?"

Bilbo hesitates, then shakes his head. "Don't worry about it," he says, turning away to work the coffee machine. He fills a cup to the brim, adds milk and sugar, caps it, then hands it to Thorin. When he spots the older man smiling around a fist, he frowns. "What?"

Thorin lowers his hand. "You remember what I take in my coffee?"

Bilbo looks surprised again. "Two milk, three sugar, isn't it? Unless you've changed your preference recently?"

Thorin glances down at his cup, feeling the heat of it seep into his hand. He wants to ask Bilbo how he's remembered such an unimportant detail about him after all these years, but instead simply says, "No, it's perfect. Thank you."

Walking to the back of the shop, Thorin sits at the pine table, the smell of the wood still lingering in the air despite its age. He slides into the chair that's oriented away from the interior of the shop and stares out the window, watching the night move in rapidly outside. Long shadows stretch across the road, and ghastly, unearthly shapes appear only to be quickly swallowed by some twice as twisted. As the world outside darkens, however, Thorin begins to see a reflection of the shop in the glass, and before he even notices, he finds himself watching Bilbo.

The younger man works with a quiet determination that Thorin has always admired, a drive that pushes him to find perfection even if it's just in his own unique way. Thorin remembers him as the soldier who always had to have his uniform just so, who separated his food into sections on his plate, who always carried a perfectly folded pocket handkerchief in his right breast pocket. A little self-conscious of smiling at nothing, Thorin buries it in his cup.

He looks back up when the bell on the door rings again, and a man in a knitted vest appears and replaces Bilbo behind the counter. Thorin watches as Bilbo takes his time leaving the shop, cleaning things he's already cleaned, re-organizing things he's already put in order, all while sneaking peaks at Thorin because he thinks he isn't watching. When he eventually leaves he walks towards the crosswalk at the end of the street, passing the window Thorin is looking out of in the process. Their eyes meet and Thorin raises his hand in farewell. In response, Bilbo stops and smiles, but the longer Thorin looks, the more sure he is that the smile is fake.


	5. History Lessons

Bilbo sits in his armchair, scowling at his notebook. He's been writing all morning, but despite hours of work, nothing seems to be coming out right. There is a lifelessness to his scenes, a dryness to his humour, a colourlessness to his characters, and in his frustration he tears the page from its binding and crumples it up in his hands. He dooms it by tossing it at the already overflowing pile near his waste bin, and seeing the mountain of lopsided balls only fouls his mood further. For a while he just sits there, contemplating why he can't seem to write anything decent this morning; eventually he moves to the bin and smooths out a random crumple, hoping to find answers.

"It's just not right," he says aloud, following his scribbles onto the back of the page. "There's just no heart in it."

As he reads over his words again and again, he acknowledges his own lack of inspiration. His writing seems flat and unimaginative because it is, because it has been nearly all week. Bilbo sighs and lets the paper float from his hand back onto the floor. He needs a change of scenery, he needs a stimulis. He needs some new inspir—

Suddenly, a small beeping sound erupts from the other side of Bilbo's apartment. It's insistent, and the longer it goes, the louder it gets. It startles Bilbo, and for a few moments all he can do is stare off into the darkened pockets of his kitchen and frantically try to guess where the beeping is coming from. As it becomes more and more shrill, Bilbo scrambles to his feet and searches for the source of the sound. He opens cupboards, pulls out drawers, digs through open boxes, and even checks the pockets of his coat. That, oddly enough, is where he finds it.

The watch is beautiful, stainless steel, and surprisingly light. There's a number of ticking faces inside, one for the time, another for an alarm, and even one for the date. As he holds the shining metal contraption in his hands, Bilbo struggles to understand what it has replaced. His folding chair was one thing, his single bed (now a king size) something else, but Bilbo hasn't owned anything save a cracked pocket-watch for the last four years, and that was hardly worth more than a few dollars. At this rate, his single apartment was going to end up worth more than the entire building, and despite the wonders of that, Bilbo can't shake the feeling that he's going to have to pay for this one way or another.

After making himself a cup of tea, Bilbo eases into a chair at his kitchen table and studies the haphazard collection of colourful fliers that decorate its face. They are all courtesy of Gandalf, who insisted Bilbo may find spare time in need of filling, and despite being apprehensive at first, he is now glad he accepted the stack. Quickly, he flips through the yellow and green papers that promise wonderful high school plays or discounts on gym memberships, and instead focuses on ones that will supercharge his creativity. As he is considering a trip to the local zoo, he stumbles onto the flier for the museum, which proudly displays a picture of Balin next to the exhibit that's been temporarily constructed in honour of his new book.

"Here we go," Bilbo whispers, already imagining all the historical artifacts he'll get to read about. As he goes to grab his coat, he notices that the museum is free on Sundays, and he can't help but smile like he's won something in a lottery.

The bus drops him off just down the street from the museum, and as he walks along the crowded sidewalk, he glances at his wrist again and again, not to learn the time, but to assure himself that his watch is still there. He still can't believe it, and until the next extraordinary thing happens, he's not sure he ever will.

He walks up the broad stone steps and between the towering columns, taking notes in his head about the little details that catch his eye. The doors are propped open with large and elaborate flower pots, and a bright ornate carpet runs the length from the edge of the steps to the front desk. A museum employee stamps his hand when he passes her, and as he glances as it, he fails to see the smiley face and instead sees a long-haired guitarist from a rock band. Chuckling, he walks into the eastern wing of the museum and follows the flow of the crowd to the first display case.

It's there, as he's studying the array of antique weapons, that he spots Thorin. He's alone, reading a plague on the wall, one hand in his pant pocket and the other holding a cellphone to his ear. Every now and again he glances around, like he's looking for something, and then continues talking to whoever's on the other line. Bilbo takes a step back, hoping to stay invisible in the crowd, and watches him for a while. The man is just so damn handsome, especially when he's not even trying, and…and…

Bilbo bites his lip and turns away. He shouldn't be thinking such things about Thorin, not now, not ever. He was beyond those feelings, those thoughts, and a part of him refuses to lose himself in this mess again. He tried, he reminds himself, a long time ago, and all it takes is a single look around his shabby apartment to see where it got him. It's the whole reason he's moved so many times, the reason he started writing, the reason he lives such a quiet and unassuming life. And what for, really? What was worth all of that?

He looks up just as Thorin turns again. Despite being a bit of a distance away, Bilbo can make out every detail about him: the cut of his suit, the padding in his shoulders, the design etched onto his brass buttons. He's got a five o'clock shadow, just dark enough to bring out the strength in his jaw, and a single curl loose from the military haircut that borders his forehead. But beyond that, Bilbo sees that inner power that he's always loved, that confidence, that ambition, and unable to stop it, something deep inside him, in places he thought he had buried long ago, begins to stir, something that shakes away the fear he knows has begun to build around his heart. Before he can make up his mind, he finds himself walking forwards, not meaning anything by the motion, but not unsure of his motives either. It takes only a moment for Thorin to see him, but Bilbo is quick and looks distracted. There's hesitation, but it doesn't take long for Thorin to walk over and gently touch Bilbo's shoulder.

"Hey," he whispers, coming up to stand beside him and glance into the display Bilbo is studying.

"Oh, hello," Bilbo whispers back, trying to sound a little surprised. "I didn't notice you were here. Come to see the new exhibits?"

Thorin smiles, just that little tug at the corner of his lips, and Bilbo is forced to look away. "No, I'm here for work," Thorin explains. "A client of mine wants to host something here, a display of their own, for a while, and I'm trying to make it happen."

"Because that's what you do?" Bilbo asks. "I didn't realize you went into the wedding business."

Thorin shakes his head, but his smile returns. "I'm a publicist." He folds his arms over his chest, a casual gesture. "And you? Here to scope out the ladies?"

"The only ladies here are schoolgirls," Bilbo retorts, "and last time I checked, the only predator around here is you."

That earns Bilbo an outright chuckle, a sound that sends flutters through his chest. "I never did like that nickname, you know," Thorin says, "but at least it was better than yours."

"Hey!" Bilbo snaps playfully, "It's not my fault you always thought burglar hobbit was so clever." He shakes his head. "Can you imagine what the other guys thought, listening in on our squadron?" He puts on a voice, like he's speaking through a radio, "'Predator, we found the Hobbit, but Crockett is still on the loose. Bastard lost his balls.'"

And just like that, the two of them are laughing together. It's just so easy, like it never used to be before. The thought sends a pang through Bilbo, but he doesn't let it damper his mood. Instead, he carries a golden warmth inside him all day, as on some unspoken prompt he and Thorin explore the rest of the museum together. He carries it even as it grows with each passing minute, each time Thorin stops to point something out to Bilbo, make a snide comment, or bring up something funny from their past. It's refreshing, and before long, even fun. Time loses all meaning, like it usually does. Bilbo takes it as a good sign.

When eventually the hours gets late and Thorin's phone won't stop ringing, the pair decide to call it a day. Bilbo walks Thorin to his car, but as he turns to leave, Thorin offers him a ride.

This makes Bilbo pause, and all at once he drowns in his fear. The claws of it are fast and sharp, and they pierce deep, so deep, that Bilbo can hardly breathe. It hurts because he knows how much he wants this, and it hurts because he knows it will never, ever work. It just can't. Thorin had said it itself.

"No, that's alright," Bilbo says, waving him off. "I'll just take a bus."

"You sure?" Thorin asks, leaning a little over the hood of his car. "I don't mind. It's not a bother or anything."

"I know, I just…no, it's fine, really. But thank you." Bilbo nods and smiles, knowing it's exactly the same smile he gave Thorin when he saw him through The Blueses' window not three days past, but he doesn't know what else to do. Bilbo was never the strong one, never the one to take risks. And as he looks back at Thorin, all he sees is heartbreak, and he's not sure he has the strength to survive it a second time.


	6. Bittersweet Recollections

Thorin doesn't sleep at all that night. As he lays in bed and stares up at his darkened ceiling, his mind drowns in the mountain of work he knows he needs to do tomorrow. He imagines the hundreds of emails littering his inbox that all need answering, the dozens of messages on his phone that all need returning, not to mention all the places he physically needs to make time to visit. He tries to plan it out in his head, slotting things in where he can fit them, but he's soon overwhelmed and gives up.

Turning onto his side, Thorin reaches for his cellphone and flips it open, maneuvering to his contact list. Bilbo's name is right at the top, those five little letters taunting him with both a sneer and a wink. Thorin had meant to ask Bilbo for his number personally, but when he missed his chance a second time he scraped the idea and just asked Fili. Fili had questioned the need for it, but quickly caved when Thorin pushed.

"What are you up to, Uncle?" Fili had asked again after reciting the digits a few times for accuracy.

"I'm just trying to reconnect with an old friend," Thorin had answered.

At that time, it had been the truth. Now, Thorin isn't so sure. As he mulls over his feelings, his grandfather clock ticking and ticking into the night, he wonders, is it really just friendship he's after, or something more? His finger hovers over the call button, despite the late hour, and for a split second he's seized by the desire to hear the other man's voice, to hear his laugh, to hear his smile. He moves the phone to his ear.

It rings.

Glancing at the clock and suddenly feeling guilty, Thorin hangs up abruptly. He puts the phone back on his beside table and turns away from it, letting the silence crawl back into the room. When at last all that can be heard is his own heart pounding in his ears, Thorin closes his eyes. He doesn't want to sleep. He wants to remember.

When did he start being so afraid? What is it he fears? What is it he's after?

For the next long while, all Thorin can think of is Bilbo. He remembers him learning how to shoot a gun, how to drive a tank, how to ride a horse; he remembers watching him put a bomb together, stitch a wound, break through barbed wire. He was so young when they first met, eighteen maybe, hardly old enough for the war they were fighting. Never kill a soul, he had sworn on his first day. By the second he had killed three.

War had hardened Bilbo, but slowly, more slowly than Thorin had thought was possible. He had trained dozens of soldiers, seen years and years in battle, and somehow, Bilbo transcended all of his expectations. He was tough in a quiet way, in a determined way, and when duty called, he was there. He complained, sure, he screwed up, sure, but at the end of the day, even when he had every opportunity to leave or abandon, he stayed.

Thorin doesn't know how he ended up on the floor, but as he's kneeling beside his bed, he knows why. He reaches underneath it, sliding his hands along the hardwood, and grabs the metal handles on a small wooden chest. He lifts it out and onto his lap, leaning his back up against the wall. Lifting the lid, he watches the plume of dust that whisks away from the chest as he does so.

Inside is little more than junk to anyone but Thorin. There's a few faded photos, two sets of dog tags, a folded piece of paper, some spent shell casings, a couple of rocks, the corner of a burnt flag, and an assorted collection of tarnished bronze knuckles. He sifts through the memorabilia, reaching for the folded paper, and turns on his lamp so he can read the faded writing that slants across it.

_Thorin._

_Forgive me for letting you wake up alone, but let's be honest, you'd have talked me out of leaving had I stayed to say goodbye. I don't know where I'm going, or where you'll end up, but I hope for both our sakes there's a light at the end of this tunnel. Chase that dream of yours, Thorin, and smile, just once, just for me. I will never need a reward greater than that._

_Yours,_

_Bilbo._

Thorin stares at the writing, still speechless, even after all these years. From those days, all Thorin can really recall is falling in and out of consciousness in a hospital, and one day there being a hand in his, and the next its gone, never to return. When he finally stays coherent enough to turn his head without seeing spots, he discovers the little note next to his bed, a set of dog tags tucked inside. And then there's nothing in his memory but anger, anger and pain.

His nightmares started the next night, and have continued every night since then. They haunt him like ghosts haunt their murderers, and no matter what he's done, no matter who he's talked to, nothing has ever made them stop. He remembers the words from every therapist he's ever seen, from every prophet, every doctor, and quietly, he admits to himself the truth he's been trying to fight for nearly half of his adult life: he either has to forget Bilbo, or make peace with him. It went without saying which of the two proved to be impossible.

But is peace really what makes his heart skip its beats? Makes his body feel weightless, his waking life less pointless, his days more beautiful? Is it really peace that has finally allowed him to start dreaming again?

And if its not peace, if its something else, something more, is it right of Thorin to ask of Bilbo the one thing he swore they could never share?

When morning comes to find Thorin, he's already at his office, hiding his lack of sleep behind cups of coffee. He speaks briefly with two of his clients, and when the third arrives for their in-person consultation, Thorin has completely fallen back into the rhythm of things. This part of his life is easy, is simple, is straightforward. He can fix things here. Maybe he's needed that more than he knows.

The last client he sees arrives a little late, but the moment he steps through the door, Thorin forgives him. It's not that he and Beorn are friends, exactly, but they have a certain kind of mutual respect for each other, and with respect comes understanding.

"Train arrive late?" Thorin asks, motioning to the chair on the other side of his desk.

Instead of answering, Beorn simply shrugs. He drops down into the chair like he's carrying a thousand pounds on his shoulders, and the lines on his face betray his stress. "It's been a long season, this year," he admits. "I'll be glad when it's over."

Thorin studies his client and frowns, just a little. "You're not sleeping."

"Neither are you," Beorn replies, "but that's hardly new."

They talk business for the better part of an hour, discussing rights for the next show, some tour stops, maybe even a book or two. Eventually they fall into pleasantries, with Thorin asking about circus life and chuckling when needed during anecdotes and Beorn asking him about his nephews and chucking at anecdotes in turn. When Beorn finally excuses himself, he gets up from the chair with a heavy sigh and rolls his massive shoulders, as if hoping to dislodge the weight that has settled there. It does little for him.

"Here," he says, reaching into his jacket and offering a few ticket stubs to Thorin. "Before I forget." As Thorin nods his head in thanks and reaches out to take them from Beorn's hands, the other man fans a fourth out from behind the three he usually offers. "Take a date this year," he says with a completely straight face. "I'll be doing transformations." And with that he touches the rim of his dark hat and shuffles out of the office.

Thorin hadn't realized how imposing Beorn's presence had been until he'd disappeared, and, slumping down into his chair, he now feels exhausted. He studies the tickets in his hands, the ones to the magic show, and pretends, for at least a moment, to consider who he wants to invite with the extra one.


	7. Bliss and Ignorance

Bilbo sits at the back of the bus, beside the window, watching as the last few rays of sunlight tinges the world a faded golden red. Twice he leans his head against the glass and almost falls asleep, lulled by the rhythmic white noise of the people surrounding him, but each time he's startled awake by the weight of the ticket in his pocket. As he's reminded of its presence, he reaches for it with a haste it should not demand-like a man a buoy in the middle of the ocean-for fear that it has disappeared and all of this will prove to be meaningless. But then again, who's to say it won't anyway?

Sobering, Bilbo leans against the window again and watches as the bus pulls over at another stop. The people who clamber on sound joyous and excited, talking loudly about what they remember of the circus from the year before. Memories of elephants, jugglers, cotton candy and magic shows awakens something dormant inside Bilbo, a kind of yearning for childhood that has never been commonplace with him. Thus, for a short while, he gives in to it and imagines the wonderment that comes with the circus, the music, the laughter, the fireworks, the cheering, but soon the hum of the bus drowns it out and Bilbo is alone again, clutching his jacket tightly to his chest as if trying to protect his heart from impending harm.

Sometime later, when the large and colourful tents finally begin to appear along the skyline, Bilbo actually starts to feel excited again. He relives that afternoon at The Blueses, when Thorin first brought up his extra ticket. He had seemed so earnest about it, sheepish, almost, and of course Kili had been thrilled. It had been the younger man's promises and persuasions that had ultimately gotten Bilbo to agree, because otherwise, he isn't so sure he would have overcome his instinctual apprehension of the idea. Now, as he slowly gets closer and closer to his destination, he questions whether or not it was the right choice. In the end, he decides that regardless of anything, of him, of Thorin, of either of their motives, he is going to at least try to enjoy himself. Surely he can manage that much.

Stepping off the bus, Bilbo looks for Thorin's car and finds it parked not far from the stop. The sleek, black Porsche stands out horribly amongst the station wagons and family vans that have gathered around it, like a jaguar lounging in a crowd of tattered housecats. Making his way up the gravel path, Bilbo grounds his pounding heart by losing it in the swells of movement and noise that are constantly moving into and away from the gleaming front gates of the circus. It's there, just before the lines of ticket booths, that he finds Thorin and the brothers, who smile each in turn when they spot him. Kili and Fili greet Bilbo energetically, wasting little time before breaking into fond stories of the place they have been visiting annually for nearly half a decade. Bilbo listens and nods his head as he needs to, all the while aware of Thorin's eyes on him, casting the illusion of a teenager under the watch of a chaperone. When the brothers finally pause to take a breath, Thorin cuts in with a small cough and asks that they save some of the circus's surprises for Bilbo to discover on his own.

Once past the ticket booths, Bilbo is hit with the full overwhelming power that is the circus. He hasn't been since he was a young boy, but everything seems very much like he remembers. There are men on stilts that tower over fifteen feet high, fire-eaters that somehow don't burn themselves to a crisp, animal tamers with the daring to put their heads in the mouths of normally vicious animals, and contortionists that magically manage to bend into tiny boxes no larger than a fish tank. Fili even drags them to the horse show, but whether it was to watch the stallions or the scantily clad women who rode them he would never admit. In-between events they feast on munchies, everything from corn-dogs to donuts to soft pretzels, with Thorin footing the bill for all of it.

Throughout the evening Bilbo forgets what it was that he was supposed to forget, and suddenly the night has nothing to do with the accidental brushes of his side against Thorin's, or the beauty of his smile, or the chills that race along his spine every time the other man laughs. No, the night is only filled with the magic that comes with bliss, bliss and ignorance.

As the night continues, the group eventually moves from the tents to the more open area ringed by game booths and buskers, the closest of which appear to be dancing on a ladder held up by one of their company.

"That's astonishing," Bilbo says to Thorin, pointing them out although they're impossible to miss. "One guy, holding up all seven of the rest of them." He shakes his head, the display of strength and flexibility beyond his understanding.

They watch for a while, but eventually Thorin turns away, gently touching the small of Bilbo's back to prompt him in the direction Kili and Fili have gone.

As they walk away together, Bilbo suddenly realizes the position they're in: Thorin's hand warm against his back, his shoulder just brushing Thorin's chest, their steps in line, Thorin's breath hot on his neck...Bilbo reacts instinctually, the closeness too much too fast. He tries to step away without being too obvious, but the crowd is restrictive and chaotic, and by the time he's managed to edge just a little bit away, someone nearly shoves him off his feet. He staggers, and to both his horror and embarrassment, Thorin reaches out to steady him.

"Hey, be careful," he whispers, their faces so close his words practically brush Bilbo's cheek. "You alright?"

But Bilbo can't hear him, because all he can see, all he can concentrate on, are Thorin's lips. He watches them move, watches his teeth catch his bottom lip for just a split second, watches as they move ever so slight forward as if-

And then Fili is there. "Uncle!" He cries, nearly running both of them down. He opens his mouth to say something, but stops, noticing the slightly dazed look on Bilbo's face and frowns. "You okay Bilbo?" He asks, instantly concerned. "The crowds getting to you? Your face is a little red."

Bilbo reaches up and touches his cheek, turning away from Thorin in the process. "I'm fine, just a bit winded, is all." He shuffles his feet and straightens his jacket, trying to make it look like he had tripped and nothing more. "Sorry, did you say where Kili went? It'll be murder if we lose him in this crowd."

Fili raises an eyebrow, recognizing Bilbo's attempt to change the topic of conversation, but says nothing. "He's playing a few rounds of that ring toss game. I tried to tell him it's rigged, but he won't believe me." He looks up at Thorin and shrugs, but the silent question Thorin asked him is lost by the time Bilbo raises his head.

When they finally meet back up with Kili, his arms are filled with an assortment of stuffed animals and other prizes, one of which he hits Fili over the head with. "Rigged, he says. Impossible, he says." Kili laughs and dumps the pile into Fili's arms. "I'd like to see you try and sink half as many rings."

While the boys bicker, Bilbo shoves his hands in his pockets and studies the ground. The heat that had risen up to his face is starting to fade away, but he can't stop himself from trembling a little bit. He makes a small fist, hoping to hide it from the others, but when he looks up and sees Thorin eyeing him worriedly, he feels the tremors worsen.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Thorin asks him, looking Bilbo up and down. Bilbo barely manages to suppress a shiver.

"Yes, yes, nothing to worry about. Just been a long day."

Thorin nods, accepting this answer even though they both know it's a lie. He turns away, glancing at a few of the nearby booths, and seeming to spot something interesting, starts making his way through the crowd.

Afraid to lose sight of him, Bilbo nudges Kili and Fili and suggests they keep up. They do end up losing him, but a moment later he reappears, a tall dark head in a cluster of funny hats and vibrant hair. He's watching a little boy play a shooting game, seven lines of painted wooden ducks moving along a track with targets painted on their chests, but even after several shots, the boy can't seem to hit more than one. When the buzzer goes the man in the booth hands the boy a little bouncy ball before he's herded away by his parents.

"Want to try your hand?" The man asks Thorin, spotting him watching. "Hit six and any prize in this booth is yours."

Kili looks excited by the notion. "You should try, Uncle," he urges, a smirk spreading across his face. "Ten dollars says you can't down more than five."

Thorin narrows his eyes at his nephew, questioning the challenge. "You really shouldn't be gambling," he says, but he hands the man a few dollars anyway. "Five, you said?" He asks Kili, picking up the plastic (but oddly realistic) glock on the counter. "Five?"

Kili folds his arms across his chest. "Just shoot old man."

Thorin laughs, a sound that instantly unnerves both the brothers and Bilbo. As he raises the gun, all the mirth on his face vanishes, replaced with concentration that tightens across his brow. Bilbo recognizes the stance he takes, his shoulders bracing for blowback, his feet spread for balance, and smiles before he can stop himself. He watches as Thorin nods curtly at the man behind the counter, his eyes following him as he presses the button on the back wall to start the game. All at once the booth is alive with music, and although there's a two second delay, the ducks come to life and begin to move rapidly along the tracks.

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM

It takes less than ten seconds for Thorin to empty every last shot in the gun, and as the preverbal dust clears, it's immediately obvious that he's managed to shoot down not just five of the ducks, but all twenty eight of them.

Out of habit, Thorin lowers the gun slowly and blows gently across the muzzle. "Still got it," he says to no one in particular, the tiniest bit of nostalgia flittering across his expression. He twirls it twice in his hand before placing it back on the counter hilt first, turning his head just a little in Bilbo's direction as he does so. It's not a conscious movement, exactly, more just to assure himself Bilbo is still there, but it's nevertheless enough to force the younger man to stare at the ground.

Feeling somewhat obligated now, Bilbo admits, "You're still the best shot I know."

Thorin shoots him a smile, that special, little one, and despite sending his stomach into his shoes, Bilbo summons the courage to hold his gaze and smile in return.

As they walk away from the booth, Thorin refusing Kili's money on principle, a voice comes over the intercom and announces the start of the magic show. Fili and Kili take the lead, weaving their way towards the largest tent on the grounds out of nothing but memory, which leaves Thorin to fall into step with Bilbo. As they're walking, Thorin casually passes Bilbo the stuffed panda he's just won, which he takes without thinking, figuring he's just been silently asked to hold it for a moment. As time passes, and Bilbo realizes Thorin can no longer face him, understanding hits him and he has to cough into his fist in hopes of hiding the flames that have risen to consume his expression.

When they finally enter the tent, Thorin sweeps them up to their front row reserved seats. The brothers sit together on one side of Thorin, leaving Bilbo to take the one on his other side. Their closeness is not lost to him, and just as the ticket weighed both on his mind and in his hand, so does the panda. He doesn't look at it-he can't look at it-and as he fidgets in his seat, he struggles with every last ounce of strength he has not to think about what it means.


	8. Try

Bilbo sits in complete silence, even once the show starts. There's no warning for the darkness that creeps in under the tent flaps, no indication of where the shadows' peculiar shapes are coming from, but suddenly the room is filled with the dark outlines of birds and beasts and fish of all sizes. A large sting ray swoops up under Bilbo's feet, startling him, but otherwise the silhouettes garner little besides cheers of delight. As the ceiling swells with a pride of lions and the back wall a sea of stripped clown-fish it quickly becomes evident that all the creatures are moving steadily towards the center of the stage, creating circles around it like lifelines in a tree. The quiet returns to soon be replaced by a soft hum, a whirling and faint murmur from an instrument that could be and is both a flute and a drum. A few people turn their heads, trying to trace the sound, but it's coming from everywhere and nowhere, like the shadows.

Eventually the dark lines begin to blur together and converge, a tower of darkness rising from the floor like a column. The music builds, steady, like a heartbeat. There's a collective moment when everyone seems to hold their breath, waiting, and suddenly the shadow violently twists. The darkness flares like a superhero's cape, revealing, in the place where before was only shadow, the magician.

He's a tall man, easily over six feet, with black hair to his shoulders and eyes that seem in shift in colour regardless of the lighting. His suit is tailored to fit his broad shoulders, and his coattails reach to the back of his knees. A simple top-hat rounds off his ensemble, and when he turns to face the audience he bows with it in his hands. Even from the front row, at least twenty feet from where he's standing, Bilbo can sense the man's raw power. It's like nothing he's ever experienced before.

Uneasy, Bilbo tries to break the spell by speaking. Due to his seat placement, that leaves him whispering to Thorin. "Is he that client of yours?" He asks. He keeps his face forward, afraid of where his eyes will go if he turns his head. "The one who gave you the tickets?"

Although unnecessary, Thorin leans forward and places his forearms on his legs before he nods. "He's also the ringmaster, runs the whole show." He looks up and catches the magician's eye, smiling with his professional, business-only smile. The man returns it with a small nod, flickering his gaze momentarily to Bilbo before raising his eyebrow just long enough to be seen.

In response, Thorin lets out a breathy chuckle and lowers his head. Bilbo, feeling like he's missed out on a joke, glances between the two with a confused expression. Thorin looks up and catches it, his smile sliding from formal to something else, something more. Bilbo looks away more sharply than he intended.

Beorn, as the magician introduces himself, commands the remaining two hours without needing so much as another word. He sends birds that he's pulled out of his sleeves around the room, snatching things from people's hands and passing it to others; he steps behind a door and disappears when his volunteer from the audience opens it; he blows smoke into a large silver ring and makes it pour out of his hat. He pulls playing cards out of clear water pitchers, burns flowers to ash only to slide them behind a sheet of paper and make them whole again, sprinkles dust in the air that transforms on the ground into a boa constrictor, and even levitates a middle aged woman ten feet above her chair. The roar from the audience swells and dies after each performance, each time everyone more and more eager for the next impossible act.

Because it can't go on forever, Beorn eventually signals that this is his grand finale. An assistant brings out a circular glass platform, about the size of a coffee table, and sets it up at the back of the stage. Beorn steps up onto it and bows, once, low, for the audience. No one dares make a sound.

Bilbo is not sure of the exact moment it happens, but one second he's looking at a man in a suit and the next he's looking at a black bear. The change is so sudden, so unbelievable, that he actually touches Thorin's arm in surprise.

The black bear stares out at the crowd, perfectly still save for its fur, which sways with even the tiniest breeze. Slowly, it raises its head towards the ceiling and flashes its gleaming white teeth. It's beautiful, beautiful in the way that only nature could create. It shifts a little, first left, and then right, and then bounds up on its hind legs and paws at the space before it as if trying to swipe fish from a river. When it lands back on the platform it is silent as night, still as the stars, lifeless like a statue.

And then it runs. It pounds across the stage, running, running, running, running so much more than the stage should have had room to allow. And then, as it nears the edge, it jumps, one single leap into the air. A few people in the first few rows scream, ducking, trying to get away, but the moment the bear's feet completely leave the stage it dissolves into a cloud of ravens, which in turn explodes into a shower of black dust.

There's a single, combined moment of complete silence, and then the audience roars in applause. Beorn, as if nothing at all had happened to him, appears from behind the curtain and takes another bow, thanking everyone for watching the show and enjoying the circus. It takes the better part of twenty minutes for everyone to file out through the tent's only exit, but even by then everyone is still riled up by what they have seen.

"It gets better every year!" Kili yells, his voice mingling with others who are shouting the same thing. "Wow! Just…wow!"

"How does he even do that?" Fili demands, turning to Thorin. "You talk to him, does he ever tell you? Do you know?"

Thorin shakes his head, his mouth moving but no words escaping. Eventually he manages to say, "Beorn doesn't share his secrets with anyone."

The group walks in silence back to Thorin's car. Their walk is slow, gentle, meandering, as if leaving is costing them more than they can afford to give up. The crowd pushes them along at a decent pace, but Thorin manages to find a route that isn't threatening to trample them should they slow. Bilbo falls back and walks behind the threesome, who clump together like a small family. He alternates between studying their backs and studying the ground, happy and yet bitter at the same time. He feels like he's failed himself twice, once for allowing his pain to bleed into the evening and again for trying to ignore it in the first place.

Following the trajectory of a kicked stone, he peers into the fenced-in yard surrounding what appears to be an elaborately ornate tent. In the ground are stuck up signs advertising the resident fortuneteller, as well as images of crystal balls and evil eyes. As he draws closer to the place he notices a shadow watching them from the door, and as he nears a figure emerges and shuffles up to the gate. With a greying beard and an enormous hearing aid, Bilbo at first dismisses him as nothing more than a customer, but when the man calls out to Thorin, his voice alone is enough to convince Bilbo of his true identity.

Thorin pulls away from his nephews for a moment. "Oin," he greets, patting the man on the arm. "It's good to see you. I didn't know you'd be out tonight."

Oin laughs. "I read the signs," he explained, absolutely casual, "and the ravens are headed off for the mountain. Something very important I must do today, you see."

Thorin nods like he's heard this before, and in his silence the brothers trudge up to his side. There's a certain amount of respect on their faces, but in their eyes Bilbo can see curiousity and questions, questions perhaps they know better than to ask. Kili offers Oin some candy corn, but the prophet politely declines.

Spotting Bilbo, who's standing a little awkwardly just behind Fili, Oin's face lights up. He waves him closer, his toothy grin slightly disarming. "Bilbo," he says, nodding, "Yes, Bilbo, good that you are here."

"I'm sorry," Bilbo replies, "but…do I know you?"

Oin frowns. "No," he says simply. He carries on anyway. "Thorin, I don't have time to sit you down, but are you still having those nightmares?"

Immediately it's like the temperature in the air has dropped ten degrees. The brothers mumble that they'll wait by the car and then all but sprint away. Bilbo nearly follows them, but Oin's expression roots him in his place.

"Thorin," Oin says again, placing a hand reassuringly on his arm. "You must be bold. Seize the answers that are not out of reach." He turns to Bilbo again. "You, lad, you've done it. You've found a way to let go of the past. Share your skill." There's an ominous pause as he takes Thorin's hand in both of his. "Have a little faith."

For a while none of them move, only stare where their eyes are fixed. Bilbo doesn't question this stillness, but the weight in his chest is creeping back in. Even once Oin has said his goodbyes and retreated back to his tent, Bilbo feels it growing inside him. He worries he's going to be sick.

The walk with Thorin to the parking lot is heavy with unspoken sentiments, so heavy Bilbo very nearly collapses under it. They don't so much as look at each other, but when they get to the car, Bilbo slides into shotgun with complaint.

Thorin drops off the nephews first. Their condo is on a cul-de-sac, not far from downtown, with a beautiful archway framing the front doors. They smile and joke around before leaving, lightening the mood somewhat, but it's obvious that they're trying a little too hard. Bilbo waves goodnight, pretending to be oblivious to the tension, but once they disappear from sight the pretense crumbles like a knocked over sandcastle. Glancing out the window, Bilbo watches the night-tinted houses pass by as the car starts back down the road.

When they reach the lights and are forced to stop, Thorin turns to Bilbo. His expression betrays nothing, but when he speaks, his words are empty and raw. "Sorry, you never did say where you live."

The drive feels infinity long, but when The Blueses, dark at this hour, finally pulls into sight, Bilbo fears leaving his seat. He could have just thanked Thorin for the ride and left, but something stops him. He knows Thorin too well to just let this go. It'll hurt what they have, even if what they have is not all that much at all.

"I didn't know you were still having nightmares," he says.

Thorin keeps his eyes on the empty road ahead of him, his hands still on the wheel despite the fact that he's parked his car. "They're not the same as before," he says, like that explains everything away. "They're different."

He's quiet for a moment, but then glances out the window on Bilbo's right. "Nice building," he notes.

Bilbo chuckles. "It's not falling apart." Glancing down at his hands he adds, "I had a really good time tonight."

Thorin smiles at the windshield. "I'm glad." He drums his fingers on the wheel, but it's not a signal for Bilbo to leave. After a moment of indecision he turns off the ignition, robbing the night of even the soft rumble of his car. Now there's nothing but their breathing.

For a long while neither of them speaks. This silence is not silence, however, it's something else. Something greater. Each breath echoes in the darkness like words over time, dragging up things from the past and dismissing them in the same instant. Colours, memories, sensations, emotions, things neither can stand to relive, drift around in the space between them, neither addressed nor ignored.

Bilbo is familiar with this silence. He knows it intimately, like a con man his act. He realizes that this is his only chance. He can't explain why, but he can feel it, under his skin, like a clock that has just returned to zero.

"Thorin," Bilbo whispers, his voice so soft that the new-fallen rain hitting the roof of the car almost swallows the sound. "We really need to talk. About this. About us. We can't just pretend…" he trails off. "I need to know what this is."

"Does it need a label?" Thorin murmurs in return. He's moved his hands to his lap, and they hold each other like lovers, desperate, hoping.

He doesn't see it, but his words burn Bilbo like salt in a newly healing wound. The sting runs deep, straight to his core. Words rise to his lips, unbidden and angry. "I need to know what you're thinking. You knew Kili would be working today, you knew I would cave. Is that what this is? Nothing serious? Like it always is?"

Thorin looks taken aback. There's something in his eyes, something that looks very much like dread. "How else could I have—"

"Called me," Bilbo says. "You could have called me. And I know you have my number, Fili told me. Asked me why we'd fallen out of touch if we were such 'old friends'." He chuckles, but it's as forced as a square peg in a star shaped hole. "What could I have told him?"

Bilbo has no idea how the conversation ended up here so quickly, but he doesn't stop to correct it's course.

"Bilbo…" Thorin tries to say, his voice even softer than a whisper, softer than snow, softer than a kiss goodbye.

"Thorin, please." Bilbo closes his eyes. "I can't do this again. I can't walk into this knowing you're only going to hurt me."

Bilbo has started to tremble. He's fighting it, fighting it with all the resolve he's built up over the last fourteen years, but it hurts. It hurts so much.

"I'm not—" but Thorin stops. He knows that's a lie, just as much as Bilbo does. "Bilbo," he says, beginning again, "I'm going to try very, very hard not to hurt you. That's not what I want—"

Bilbo interrupts him again, and turns to stare right into his eyes. They're so beautiful, he's always thought so. "What _do_ you want?"

Thorin hesitates, but then…"Can we try?"

And there it is. Those three little words. And yet, and yet…

When Bilbo speaks again, his voice is fractured. His words practically shatter as they tumble from his tongue. "How can you ask me that?"

Thorin matches his tone, but all the light dies from his eyes. "I thought…isn't that something you want, too?"

Bilbo looks away. His heart is caving in on itself, his soul crumbling into dust. He's collapsing and soon there will be nothing of him left.

His next words shock even him.

"No."

And suddenly this night has nothing to do with either of them, nothing to do with anything at all besides the translucent little shadow that has haunted Bilbo since the very moment he first fell in love with Thorin, since the very moment he watched as the other man took his heart and destroyed it in his own hands.

"You selfish bastard," he breathes, and honestly, he doesn't know if he said that in his head or out loud. It doesn't matter. "You know what Thorin? It was. Even an hour ago, it was. But you damn well push too hard and ask too damn much, too damn fast and too damn soon. You think that everything can just be solved if you're persistent enough, determined enough. I'm not just something you can cover up with duck tape and pretend is fixed!"

There are tears. They're hot and bitter and Bilbo wishes he could rub them all away. But he's waited a long time to cry. Too long. "Did you ever think to ask me how I feel? How I feel about you, just falling into my life again, and then acting like nothing has ever happened between us? Do you have any idea what that's doing to me?" His breathing is ragged, laboured, husky. The only sound he can hear over his own voice is the blood rushing in his ears. "And then you have the nerve to look me in the eye and ask me to try. Try for the very thing I have tried hardest for in all my life. You ask me…"

He stops. His voice doesn't even seem to belong to him. "You don't understand, you've never understood. You could never stop and see how what you were doing was affecting others. Why do you think I'm a shy, fearful, quiet little wisp of a man who finds more solace in the ground than in your face? Because every time I look at you, there's a part of me that remembers. Remembers every time you've destroyed me, stitched me back together, held me together, and then torn me apart again. You're like a disease, a poison, that seeps into my blood and burns me just when I think I've escaped your reach. You beat me while I'm down, take me away from everything I know, and then hope that a lively evening out and a spanky car can fix the gash you've ripped through my soul?"

Thorin reaches out. It's a simple gesture, innocent, careful, but Bilbo pulls back like an animal in a cage. "I gave you my heart," he pleads, pleads like he did, all those years ago, when he first confessed. "I offered it to you, first with words, then with actions, then with blood. And do you remember what you said to me? As I lay there, so sure that you would die? With what could have been the last exchange we ever shared?"

Despite staring into his face, into his eyes, Bilbo can see only beyond them, somewhere far into the distance, into a field tainted with blood, of a grime-covered hand clutching an oaken branch, of that hand pressed to a still beating heart. "What Oin said, about me. Do you remember? About me, letting go of the past?"

It's not a question. They both know the answer.

"I never let go of the past, Thorin," Bilbo says with a shaky laugh. "Never. It's impossible."

Their eyes meet. Bilbo focuses on them for what he knows is the last time.

"I let go of you."


	9. Tears and Rain

Bilbo gets out of the car. Thorin watches him go. He's not sure what else he can do.

Fourteen years ago, nearly to the day, Thorin had been in the same position. He'd been unconscious for over three weeks, waking only to a white haze, a haze that held him motionless and speechless. He couldn't hear, he couldn't smell, he couldn't taste, he couldn't see—but he could feel, and that was what mattered. Those days had been hard, because holding onto the real world was completely dependent on the only constant Thorin could cling to, the only constant that seemed to exist outside of the whiteness and the silence.

A hand. A small, warm hand, clutching his own. Always there. Always waiting.

Sometimes, when Thorin awoke to the sea of nothingness, he would try to remember what it was like to live. He would imagine things, beautiful things, like mountains and rivers and grasslands and gold, but it all seemed so fake, so fabricated. In his solitude, there was nothing outside of his thoughts and that hand, that light pressure that would occasionally whisper Morse code nonsense to him. It held him together when there was nothing else, held him together when all he wanted to do was drown in the shapeless waters that surrounded him. He had lived because he wanted, more than anything, to see again.

Thorin has only one memory of that fateful morning, the morning he finally got his wish. He remembers waking, he remembers a flash of blinding colour, and then there he is, in a hospital room, staring at a ceiling nearly hidden under an armada of balloons.

The world was loud and busy. There was bustling and rustling and pounding and more, but Thorin drank all of it in, every last detail. He wiggled his toes to catch them in the fabric of his sheets, he bent his elbow to feel it hit the metal frame of his bed, he turned his head to watch the pillow rise all around his face. Everything was wondrous and new and magical and fresh. Everything was perfect.

Thorin flexed his hand. It was only then, when his fingers brushed gently against his own palm, that he realized it was empty.

He stared at it, stared at the ridges of his flesh, the cuts on his wrist, the stains under his nails, and felt all the rediscovered world give way. A machine on his right began to beep, shrill in the general din that had built around his head, but Thorin failed to hear it. He curled his fingers in the empty air again and again, as if doing so would fill it with the warmth and tenderness he'd always known.

That night, he slept with a folded piece of paper clasped between his fingers. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

That night, he had his first nightmare.

/

The cold midnight air smashes into his face. Thorin tastes the rain on his tongue, bitter and ice cold, and closes his eyes in response. The last thing he sees is Bilbo's hand on the glass of the passenger side door, his finger leaving a print in the translucent water.

Thorin knows that mark, knows it like a calligrapher recognizes his own handwriting. The hills, the dips, the swirl, the arch, it's like chasing the end of a rainbow. Thorin pictures it, for a split second, in black ink, pressed on the dotted line of a contract bearing both of their names. To join the company of Thorin Oakenshield, signed by Bilbo Baggins.

Who had he been then, eighteen and fresh out of school? A fool, that was what. He'd looked so afraid the first time they'd met, following in the shadow of an older man with a long grey beard. "You asked me to find the seventh member of your company," the old man had said, "and I have chosen Bilbo Baggins."

Bilbo had glanced between the two men, grey and black, young and old. Who was he more afraid of?

"A green boy?" Thorin had asked, raising his eyebrow. "He looks more like a teacher's assistant than a sniper."

But the old man had been insistent, taking Thorin aside and staring him down. "You must trust me on this," he whispered, a hand on his shoulder, his expression grave.

Thorin sighed, a deep, low sound in his chest. "I cannot guarantee his safety," he replied, "nor will I be responsible for his fate."

The old man nodded. It had all been so simple.

How had it gotten so out of hand?

/

Thorin opens his eyes. The rain is battering against the windshield like bullets, hard, fast, and ceaseless. The light that flickered on when the door opened now clicks off, returning Thorin to the darkness. He raises his eyes and looks into the glass, the reflection just enough that he can faintly make out the silhouette of Bilbo on the sidewalk. Thorin thinks of his umbrella, in the glove compartment, but does not move.

Rain had always been a problem for them, especially Bilbo. He suffered it well enough, when Thoin had commanded it of him, but it forced him to clutch his rifle to his chest like a child and he always cleaned his scope for hours afterwards, complaining about what the water was doing to the glass. On that first day, Bilbo had outright refused to kill anyone, swearing it just wasn't in his nature.

"How well can you see?" Thorin had asked him, on the morning of his second day. "Can you see to those hills?"

"Yes," Bilbo had replied. "And a little further, too, if you need."

Thorin nodded. "Good, then. We're going to slip into the house, just like we arranged. We'll get the files and get out. If anyone comes, shoot them. Understand?"

Bilbo had not raised his head, only surveyed the land like their lives were already on the line. "I've got your back," he said. "Just be quick."

And they had been. Thorin, taking all that remained of his team with him, managed to ransack the house in no time flat. It hadn't been him who had found the files they were looking for, but Bifur. Holding them triumphantly, the team pressed themselves under the house's lone window, waiting for Thorin's signal. He glanced out, looked around, and the made the motion for evacuation.

Two steps out the door and enemy fire almost cost Thorin his head.

He hit the ground hard, rolling in the dust, trying to get back on his feet before anyone else could shoot him. He maneuvered onto his back and abandoned his plan, spotting the man's legs less than half a dozen feet from him. Thorin pulled out his gun and aimed it at the man's chest, but the second before he can pull the trigger—his finger already grasping the cold steel—a shot rang out and the man crumpled to the ground.

It had been a perfect shot. So perfect it pierced through that man and into the one crouching in the bushes just behind him. Thorin would never know a sharper shooter in all his life.

But Bilbo wouldn't slept that night, or any night at all that week. Thorin knew, but only because he hadn't either.

/

The smell of blood is sharp in the stillness of the car. Thorin glances down and realizes he's pressing his fingernails so hard into his palms he's broken the skin. He watches it well up and spill over, staining all the way across his hand. he does nothing to clean it away. The pain makes him feel alive.

"Alive?" Bilbo had demanded, bandaging Thorin's arm for the third time that day. "Is that why you always agree to undertake the craziest missions? Can't you just go…rob a bank or something?"

Thorin had laughed, dropping his eyes to Bilbo's exposed chest, equally as bandaged. He reached out and ran his finger along the top of an exposed cut, free only because Bilbo had worried any more bandages would make him look like a mummy. Their eyes had met, only for a moment, but something passed between them, something neither of them brought up ever again.

That had been the first time Bilbo had kissed him.

/

Is this fear, this grip around his neck? Thorin shrugs his shoulders, feeling the vice tightening as he does so. It's making his chest feel small, making his breaths feel short, making his head feel light. And there, low, low, low, in the pit of his stomach, he can feel something sinking.

Thorin had watched Bilbo sink, once, just out of reach of his hand. He can't remember how Bilbo had ended up in the river, but one second the storm was miles away and the next everyone was in the water. Thorin could feel the weight of his armour dragging him down, but shrugging out of it had been easy. Bilbo had not been so lucky.

Diving, the freezing water biting at every inch of exposed skin on his body, Thoin had gone after Bilbo. On shore, Thorin rammed his hands on the younger man's chest, willing it to beat, willing it to come back to life. Bilbo had looked so small then, so fragile, so vulnerable, that Thorin very nearly stopped himself just out of the need to cradle Bilbo's body in his arms. Thorin remembers the taste of salt water on Bilbo's lips, the tangy aftertaste of their shared breaths, but more-so the sound of cracking ribs, the sound of his hope fading away.

And then Bilbo had coughed awake. He choked and gagged, drowning all over again, until Thorin had grabbed him by the shoulders and turned his head away from the sky. There was blood in his saliva, blood that dribbled down his chin and stained the collar of his shirt.

Thorin hadn't been sure if it had been rain or tears that bathed Bilbo's face that night, but he remembers the look in his eyes, remembers the gentle brush of lips against lips. Their first time had never been brought up in conversation, never expressed, never reviewed, but now it meant something more. Bilbo had dropped his hand to Thorin's heart, contorting his fingers around the muscles sculpting his chest.

"I love you," he had whispered, resting his head on Thorin's shoulder.

Thorin had said nothing.

/

He could feel them now, if he thought about it. Bilbo's fingers on his arm, when they had been watching the grand finale of Beorn's magic show. Thorin had worried he had gone a step too far with the panda, but he took the risk in good faith, thankful that his nephews seemed to think nothing of it. Bilbo's hand had been so warm, so familiar, that Thorin had had to stop himself from reaching for it, reaching for it and never letting go. How he had longed for that hand, longed for it in the bitter nights when he had more than one nightmare, longed for it in the mornings that bled into afternoons that bled into evenings—all with no respite from his curse. He wanted to kiss every one of the fingers on that hand, in gratitude, in admission, and in relief. He needed that, he realizes, and when his eyes focus again, he's not surprised to find his head turned towards the window.

It had been too dark to see that night, too dark for most people, but Thorin had forced himself to make out the shape of Azog in the darkness. His plaster white skin and red eyes stood out in any crowd, but for the moment, they were lost in the thickness of the shadows. Thorin and his company had been stalking the bastard for months, following his every move, never failing to answer to every lead. They had chased him over ranges and rivers, over the single solitary peak that crested the rocky foothills. This was the closest they had ever come to their foe. This was the closest Thorin had gotten to his revenge.

"Thorin," Bilbo whispered, his voice muffled somewhat by the scarf he had pulled over most of his face. "This isn't worth it. Azog might not even the man who killed your father—he might not even be dead."

Thorin had not turned, only moved closer to the glass. "He killed my grandfather," he spat," and legions of my men, my people. I will not rest until he is dead, by my hands alone."

His greatest mission in life. It had all ended in failure. Azog had escaped him, and he had been mortally wounded in the process. The sun was just beginning to rise as Thorin lay dying on the bloody battlefield, the oaken branch he had tried to use as a shield crumpled in the mud at his side.

Bilbo had found him there. Thorin had known he would. Despite everything that had happened between them, the silence, the tension, the hard looks, the distasteful comments, the cruelty, the dismissal, Bilbo still came to Thorin's side. He didn't need an apology. He had taken the abuse and come back anyway. Love was such a foolish thing.

Bilbo had taken Thorin's hand, pressed it to his heart. Thorin could feel it beating, feel it pounding hard enough for the both of them. But this was the end, and neither of them tried to deny that.

"You're a good man," Thorin had whispered to his old friend. "Even when you shouldn't be."

"And you're still the best shot I know," Bilbo had replied, forcing a smile despite how it made the cut on his lip bleed all the more profusely.

"Take care of my boys, will you?" Thorin had asked. He wasn't sure who else he could have asked, who else he could have trusted.

Bilbo had shaken his head, but he meant yes. "Thorin…" he tried.

"Bilbo," Thorin had interrupted. "No. Don't—"

"Thorin, I love you. I know you don't understand that. I know you don't feel the same. But I do. I always will. Just…just tell me you don't hate me."

Thorin cannot remember anything after those last words. All he knows for sure is that he fell unconscious without ever giving Bilbo an answer.

/

There's a flash of lightning. Bilbo is illuminated in the gloom, his hair plastered to his skin, his clothes dripping more than a shower-head, and then suddenly he's gone again.

Watching Bilbo vanish proves to be the tipping point. Thorin gets out of the car.

This time, there's nothing stopping him from reaching Bilbo. There's no note without an address, no phone number that's always busy, no landlord without a clue in the world about where his last tenant may have gone. This time there's only Thorin, and Thoin alone. He missed his chance once. He will not miss his chance again.

"Bilbo!" He shouts into the rain, his voice stolen by the wind and the night. "Bilbo, wait!"

He's not sure Bilbo stops, so he starts to run. There's hardly twenty feet between the road and the front door of Bilbo's apartment, but Bilbo only managed to make it halfway. He doesn't turn his head when Thorin reaches him, doesn't react when Thorin grabs his face.

There is nothing. Bilbo's face is vacant, his eyes are dead, and his skin is wet with tears and rain. He's so hollow that Thorin can practically hear his heart echoing from the cavity in his chest.

Thorin doesn't think. He's never been very good at thinking about anything. He just reacts, because that's all he knows.

Bilbo's mouth is cold, cold and empty like his hands. Thorin cannot coax life back into them, but he senses the spark, somewhere deep inside Bilbo's soul, flaring back up despite the will of many to smother it out. It's the most beautiful thing Thorin has ever seen.

"Bilbo," Thorin says to him as he pulls away. "Listen to me. Listen, okay? I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. I realize that doesn't fix anything, I realize that it doesn't make anything right, but it's all I have. I'm a terrible, terrible man who's destroyed the only person in this life that has ever really tried to help me. And you're right, you're right about me being a selfish bastard. I never thought to ask you about how you felt, how you are, and do you know why? Because when I think about you, when I think about what I remember about you, you were always the strong one. You were always the one who never let go.

"Maybe I was wrong, to think that. Maybe I was crazy to think that you knew everything I'd done since we've met again has been my pathetic attempt to apologize to you. But what I'm not unsure about is that, no matter what I do, you will always deserve better. You deserve so much better. Better than me, better than lively nights out, better than spanky cars and half-assed tour guides and smiles behind cups of coffee.

"I know you don't know, I know you can't have known, but do you want to know what I said the moment I woke up in the hospital? The moment I remembered I could speak? I asked for you, Bilbo, because every single night I spent in that bed, holding your hand, I thought of you. I dreamed of mountains and valleys and adventures and riches, but every time, just before I fell back into the darkness that saved me only from the white haze, I thought of your hand. I didn't need to see your note to know it was you. I didn't need to hear your voice, or see your face, or anything at all, to know it was you. I just knew. I always knew.

"And I was a fool. I was a fool because when I had you, I ignored you. I looked past you, I looked through you. You were such a constant in my life that I took you for granted, like the sun, like the moon, like all the precious things in this world that no one remembers to value until they're gone.

"And you deserve better than that. You deserve someone who's going to take your hand and stand beside you, like you did for me. Someone who doesn't walk away from you when you need them most, someone who supports you and cherishes you and takes care of you when you're sick. You deserve someone who will see when you're falling apart and help you get back together.

"I can't be that man, Bilbo, I can't. I'm not strong enough, good enough, or deserving enough. I've tried to outrun you, outrun the mark you've left on my life, but still those last few weeks haunt my every hour. I know I need you, I know I need you to fix _me_. But I'm not sure I have the power to fix _you_.

"But I want to try. I want to try and be everything that you ought to have and more. I want to take you away to that dream you used to tell me to chase, of that little white house on the beach, on an island, on the sea. I want to take you where falling coconuts are the worst of your problems, where sand treks onto the floor from your sandals, when the sunlight plays in your hair in the early morning light. I want to take you back to the time when you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me, except I want to be the one holding _your_ hand to _my_heart, and I want to be the one who tells _you_ that everything is going to be all right.

"But what I want—that's not important. Say no, say it and walk away. If you do, I'll get in my car and leave the city. Leave the country. Leave the continent. I'll go so far you will never, ever see me ever again. Because you, unlike me, found the strength to let go, to move on, to keep living. I refuse to take that from you. Not again.

"But if you say yes, I swear to you…I swear I will do everything in my power to fix you, to fix me, to fix us, so that this can be everything that it could have been. I want to fall in love with you all over again, Bilbo Baggins, like I did once, so long ago that I didn't even recognize what it was until I realized I had to let it go. I want to make you fall back in love with me, so the world can be beautiful again."

Thorin stops. That's it. That's all he can say. He's spilled out everything he has, everything he's ever had, and now he must wait. He's shaking to his core, his breathing is ragged, and his heart has stopped. He has nothing left. This is his final play.

In the darkness, in the rain, he feels Bilbo step closer. He feels lips, light, tender, loving, brush his. He feels warmth, he feels safety, and he feels something else.

A hand. A hand in his. The only hand he's ever wanted to hold.

And Thorin, so stubborn, so tough, so unforgiving, begins to cry.

"Thank you," he whispers.

Bilbo says nothing, just smiles, just once, and squeezes Thorin's hand in reply.


	10. To Bridge the Space Between Us

Thorin wakes just before dawn, in time to watch the sunrise through his bedroom window. The soft morning glow swoops down to surround him, spreading across his cheek, along his jaw, down his neck and up his chest. He smiles at the sight of it, at the sight of it crisscrossing his hands, dancing all about his head, twirling around through his hair, and enjoys this middle place between sleeping and waking, relishing in the timelessness that has overwhelmed him, in the peace that has come to embrace him.

He lies there for a long time, hardly moving much at all. He watches the beams, hazy and out of focus as they are, and imagines this moment like a Polaroid picture, perfect as only artistic minds can understand. He breathes softly, gently, into his pillow, the sound so rhythmic it almost puts him back to sleep. He closes his eyes, imagining all the wonderful places he could be, all the wonderful people he could be with, and with surprise that completely takes his breath away, he realizes those dreams are already his reality.

Lifting the sheets aside, Thorin looks over in the bed. Bilbo is facing in his direction, asleep despite the hour, his one hand tucked under his head and the other out of sight. The sun casts a red-orange glow to his hair, and sleep has eased the lines of tension from his face. He looks so calm, so peaceful, that it fills Thorin with a terrible ache knowing the other man's pain has almost always been his fault.

Slipping out of bed, he tiptoes to the door, sliding around it for fear of creaking hinges. Standing in the main room of Bilbo's apartment, he studies it for a time, trying to drink in all the details. It's a simple place, with few furnishings, but it looks like the kind of space Bilbo would occupy. Even the air smells of him, of pine, of ginger, of that touch of sweetness that is all Bilbo. A weakness comes to Thorin's knees, sudden and without warning, but he catches himself on the kitchen counter-top and steadies himself.

He manages to remain mostly silent until the kettle begins to boil, and it's the hiss of the steam that eventually prompts Bilbo out of bed. He's rubbing his eyes as he drapes his robe across his shoulders, trying to blink away the lingering haze of sleep. Unlike Thorin, he shows little surprise to seeing the other man there, in his home. At least, at first.

When he truly realizes his present company, his eyes widen and his lips part just slightly, words he was perhaps intending to share with his empty apartment dying on his tongue. He stares Thorin up and down, almost as if he can't believe he's really standing there, and then manages a weak, "Good morning."

Thorin smiles. "Yes, yes it is."

They stare at the each other for a moment, breathing in time with one another, until eventually Thorin asks, "Tea?"

Bilbo nods. "Thank you," he whispers.

As Thorin sets about finding cups, Bilbo eases into one of the chairs in his breakfast nook. He can hardly call it a dining room, for it's such a mismatch of small furniture, but for once he doesn't mind. He watches Thorin's back as he mills about his kitchen, loving the sight of him there, filling the empty space like he's always belonged. Maybe he has.

"There's milk in the fridge," Bilbo tells him, although it's an obvious statement. He just wants to feel like he's helping somehow. "And there's sugar in the cupboard beside the microwave."

Thorin makes an appreciative sound but doesn't reply, too absorbed in the careful pouring of hot water into two stripped cups. The steam rises and clouds his head-space, but he smiles through it, enjoying the filling of the second cup more than he can understand. After topping them both with milk and sugar he sits down at the table with Bilbo, passing him the earl grey.

As they sit together, drinking their teas, Thorin nudges Bilbo's foot. It's a playful gesture, for the sake of the words neither of them can vocalize, but Bilbo actually laughs and nudges back.

"You don't even realize it, do you?" He asks, his whole face glowing with the secret.

"Realize what?" Thorin raises his eyebrow, cocking his head a little to the left. "Realize I just woke up in the most beautiful place on earth, to the best of times, with the best of men?"

Bilbo flushes a little at that, spots of colour rising up his neck. But he shakes his head. "No, Thorin. It's something more. Something better."

His voice is quiet now, gentle, careful, like he doesn't want to ruin it. His smile rests on his face like a permanent fixture, the joy unrestrained and restless. He may as well be announcing they're having a baby.

"I'm not sure that I understand," Thorin whispers, capturing the look on Bilbo's face in his mind, storing it away somewhere he can always look back to. "Tell me the answer. Tell me what I don't realize."

Bilbo drops his eyes, staring in his cup. He takes a deep breath, then raises his head and holds Thorin's gaze. "Did you have a nightmare last night?"

And then it hits him. It's like a wave, pulling him down, pulling him under, and for a moment he swears that everything in the world stops moving. There's a profound silence that crashes in on him, a stillness and an emptiness that for once is not unwelcome. He stares out the nearest window, into the sunlight, into the morning, and then turns back to Bilbo.

They don't speak, not that either of them really has much to add, anyway, but the discovery sits between them like a thread that ties their hearts, that fills the space around them and bridges the infinite distance. Thorin's hand, resting on the table, meaning nothing much at all, moves to cover Bilbo's, their fingers intertwining together. Time, for the moment, bends around them.

When their tea is finished and the early morning creeps towards the general hour of waking, Bilbo takes the cups and places them in the sink. Thorin follows him, shadowing his steps, his breath hot on his neck and his hand tracing gibberish on his back. Bilbo moves into him, placing a gentle kiss on his jawline, but as he moves to place another Thorin's phone starts ringing from the other side of the room.

Thorin smiles apoligicially, but sensing it's urgency due to the hour, fetches his coat from the rack by the door. Placing his phone to his ear, he hears the gruff voice of one of his clients, and although he wants nothing more than to hang up, he puts on his business-man tone and addresses the problem at hand.

Bilbo, still in the kitchen, listens in on the one-sided conversation.

"Hello?" Thorin says, his voice hardened a little somewhat. "Yes, I'm at the office." There's a slight pause, but then he chuckles. "Alright, alright, I'm not at the office." He folds his arm, cupping his elbow and tugging at the loose button of his dress shirt. "I'm at my boyfriend's apartment," he explains, turning, for a split second, to catch Bilbo's eye. "No, no, you wouldn't know him."

Bilbo leans against the counter-top, zoning out for a moment while he processes Thorin's use of the word 'boyfriend'. When he manages to focus again, Thorin sounds a little agitated "Just fax me the papers," he's saying, "and I'll see them when I get in. I'll have all this sorted out by noon, I promise you." There's a few lines of pleasantries, and then Thorin hangs up, sliding the phone back into his jacket pocket.

"Do you have to go?" Bilbo asks him, when he makes his way back into the kitchen.

"No, it's not overly important," he says, running his fingers through his hair as if to reinstate the casual persona he needs to be for where he is. "It can wait."

Taking Bilbo's cheek in one hand, and his side in the other, Thorin leans down to kiss him on the lips, an expression wrought with warmth and need. Bilbo returns it with the same, but is the first to pull away.

"Thorin," he murmurs, playing with the sound of his boyfriend's name on his tongue. "Be gentle."

Smiling again, Thorin steps back and eases against the counter-top to Bilbo's right. He gestures around the room, not missing even a single beat. "Tell me about this place," he says, "Why here? Why this?"

Bilbo laughs. "That depends. If I tell you, will you promise not to laugh?"

"That depends," Thorin echoes. "If it's funny, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop myself."

Bilbo nods, like he expected that kind of answer, and pushes away from the kitchen. "Do you see that bookshelf over there, the empty one? Well, empty besides the panda?"

"Hard to miss, really," Thorin replies.

"I'm not sure you remember from yesterday, but that was just a crooked shelf last night. I know because I distinctly recall being afraid the panda would slide off the end because the shelf wasn't level. And now…well, it is what you see."

A line creases Thorin's brow, and he regards the bookcase in a new light. He doesn't question the validity of such a statement, but he does wonder about possible explanations.

Before he can comment, though, Bilbo continues. "But that's not the only thing around here that's changed. My watch? You mentioned something about it's make once." He glances around for it, but then remembers it's on his bedside table. "It was only a cracked pocket-watch, originally. And that armchair and throw? They started out as a plastic camping chair and a tattered robe." Bilbo counts these off on his fingers as he goes along. "The bathroom went from having half a sink to a double, and now my room is nearly three times the size it was when I moved in, to account for my suddenly king size bed. All in all, I have no idea where any of it comes from, but when I try to figure it out, it just makes my head spin."

Through all of this, Thorin has said nothing. Now, with his eyes on the room like he's never seen it before, he says, "So it's magic, then."

Bilbo shrugs. "I guess so."

Thorin looks back at him, taking his hand again. "You know, your apartment isn't the only thing around here that's magical."

Bilbo rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on now, that was just cheezy." But he kisses Thorin on the cheek all the same.

There's a few moments of silence, but then Bilbo clasps his hands together and bows his head. Clearing his throat, he says, "I'm sorry about what I said last night. All those terrible things…they were wrong of me. I've made a lot of mistake too." Staring at his feet, he sighs and closes his eyes. "What I said had a lot to do with anger, not with reality, and it was unfair to make it seem like you were the only one who hurt me. I…I'm sure I've hurt you too, in my own way. And I'm sorry for that."

Thorin tips Bilbo's chin up. "You really only ever hurt me once, and just you being here more than makes up for that."

It takes him a second, but Bilbo nods. "I'm still sorry for leaving you. I should have stayed, even after the doctors told me you'd be okay. You still…you still needed me."

Thorin thinks about it, considers what Bilbo is offering him. He's not sure how exactly to phrase his response, but the words tumble out of him before he realizes it.

"I don't hate you."

Bilbo looks up, a sea of conflicting emotions rising to his eyes. Inside him, he feels something suddenly fall away, a piece of himself that's been stolen when he wasn't looking, and in it's place is just his heart, exposed, vulnerable, and defenseless. He remembers when he sought those words, remembers what they would have meant to him then, and even now, they amount to about the same. It's an admission of forgiveness. It's an admission of love.

Taking his hands, Bilbo pulls Thorin towards him, pressing their foreheads together. Their breaths mingle like two bottles of mixing sand, inseparable, indistinguishable.

"Do tell," he murmurs against the other's lips, "when you smile, are those smiles for me?"

Thorin plants the lightest of kisses on the only plane in reach. "Always."

* * *

The end.

* * *

_Okay, maybe I lied._

* * *

_Due to the number of messages I've received recently from those dismayed to learn this is the last chapter of "The Colour of Magic", I come with good news - -the story, in fact, is NOT over. Instead, it continues in the sequel "The Truth About Forever", which takes places three years after "Magic" concludes. So, if you enjoyed "Magic" and would like to see where the adventure continues for Thorin and Bilbo, I suggest you take a peak and find out. If not, it was a joy sharing my work with you, and I hope you find many other wonderful stories to continue reading within the Thilbo fandom._

___And for those of you who were following the story, I thank you! You're all amazing people, and your support means the world to me. Know that I acknowledge each and every person who has reviewed, followed, favourited, and or simply just read my work, and if I could send cookies to all of you, I swear that I would! May you all find lost money in the street today! :D_


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